


Mourning

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: The air is thick with grief after Bobby's death. Dean's drivinghimselfinto an early grave, and she won't stand for it.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	Mourning

The silence is utterly overwhelming.

Although, occasionally, there _is_ a fleeting sound.

Cheap coffee percolating.

An embarrassed sniffle.

The distant, unreachable call of a bird welcoming a new dawn.

But mostly, there is nothing.

Sheer emptiness.

It’s been four days since Bobby flatlined in that hospital, and she’s proven powerless in bringing the boys back from the brink. 

Wounds still entirely too fresh from Castiel’s death, losing someone she saw as a wise, ornery uncle was nothing short of malicious salt. But to Sam and Dean, Bobby was a _father_. It’s on her to get all of them past this; she knows it. 

But she doesn’t know _how_. 

So, they sit. 

Around Rufus’s coffee table. 

Trying to hold on.

“Dinner”--a trio of sandwiches she scrapes together--comes and goes. She and Sam choke theirs down; Dean’s is left untouched. 

When the sun sets, the scattered table lamps do little to illuminate the room. No one seems to care.

Voice ragged from lack of use, Sam eventually announces he’s off to bed. As he vacates his chair, she leaves the couch. Slipping between Dean’s legs and the table, she snakes her arms around Sam’s waist, pulling him into a hug. He exhales shakily against her cheek, and crushes her into him like it’s the last embrace they’ll ever exchange. After a kiss is firmly planted on the top of her head, Sam exits, and she reclaims her spot beside Dean. 

Facing him, she crosses her legs on the cushion. “What about you?”

“What _about_ me?” Dean grumbles, staring straight ahead.

She’s not deterred. “When’s the last time you slept?”

His answer hangs in the perpetual silence of the cabin. Fingertips absently gripping the bottle’s neck, he takes a swig from his beer before resting it on his thigh.

“ _Dean_.” She steals the beverage and pushes it to the far end of the table, out of his reach.

Like a lightning strike reflecting off a green sea, anger flashes in his eyes. “ _What_?”

“You still have to take care of yourself.” Her gaze lands on the decaying PB&J to the right of his crossed boots.

Dean scoffs slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Because _that_ matters…”

“It _does_ , Dean. What happens when grief puts you in the ground?” she implores.

He gives her a weary look. There’s an edge of temptation in there; she’s sure of it. Panic flares in her gut. 

“Honey, you’ve gotta let some of this out,” she cautions him. He homes in on the path of her thumb as it glides along his knuckles. “It doesn’t have to be a big gesture. You don’t even have to involve me or Sam, but--”

Dean shakes his head. 

She’s failing. Again.

“If I crack,” he croaks, “I’m not gonna be able to put myself back together.” Tears ready to tumble at any second, his eyes seek out hers. “Not this time.”

The air’s punched out of her lungs. Now desperately clutching his hand, she suggests, “Then, at least try to get some sleep.”

Before he can protest, she slides to the opposite end of the couch. She keeps her right foot flat on the floor, but pins her left underneath her, creating a viable pillow. With a few flicks of her wrist, she invites him to lie on her open lap.

Dean scoots closer to her. Gathering his legs behind him as he turns, he gently lowers his temple to her thigh. He curls into himself, his arms wrapped around his ribs.

She snags the blanket off the back cushion and flings it over him. It spans from his chest to his ankles. Where she can reach, she tucks the fabric into his body. He doesn’t move a muscle.

She lazily runs her fingertips over his arm. He sighs. 

A small smile breaks through her state of misery. _Finally_ , she’s getting somewhere. 

With difficulty due to angles, she uses the heel of her hand to remove the knot between his shoulder blades. 

Encouraged by further success, her nails thread through Dean’s short locks. At first, she plays with the strands at random, but then upgrades to a designated pattern. He’ll have killer bedhead when he wakes up, and she’s not ashamed to admit to herself that she’s looking forward to how adorable it’ll be. 

She allows her touch to wander lower. Upon the initial stroke along the length of his neck, goosebumps appear on his warm skin.

Dean frees one of his hands. With its vast size, he has no trouble covering her knee. After shifting just enough to get comfortable, his breathing evens out almost immediately. 

Her fingers return to his hair, with no intention of leaving until he’s at least had his four hours.

In barely a whisper, she reminds the heartbroken son, “You’ve still got _me_.”


End file.
